Bedded at the Billionaire's Convenience(5)

‘And I would have done, but I came here on impulse.’
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‘Typical.’

‘What does that mean?’

Pierre looked at her, taking in the unruly blonde hair, the bizarre clothing, the huge green eyes, which were more often than not narrowed at him in judgement. ‘I have no idea how you manage to hold down a proper job, Georgie.’

‘And I have no idea how you ever manage to have fun, Pierre.’

‘There you go again. Talking without thinking.’

‘You feel free to make comments about me. Why shouldn’t I return the favour?’ Georgie felt her hackles rise. Predictably. Didn’t they always when she was in his presence? ‘Because I’m impulsive doesn’t mean that I’m irresponsible!’

‘How are the chickens, Georgie?’

She glared at him. Yes, she kept chickens. Just four of them. They clucked around happily in her back garden and laid a steady supply of the best eggs anyone could hope for. Pierre, naturally, was mystified by that small gesture of animal husbandry. In a minute he would doubtless mention her sprawling vegetable patch where she grew everything from carrots to runner beans. He had only ever been to her house once, on an errand from his mother, but it had been enough to cement in his mind a completely distorted picture of her as a slightly batty young woman totally out of tune with the twenty-first century.

‘The chickens are well and fine, Pierre.’

‘And the self-sufficient lifestyle?’

‘You are infuriating!’

‘I know. You’ve told me.’ Pierre grinned. He had to admit that she did do maidenly outrage very well indeed. All flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.

‘It’s common sense,’ Georgie said through gritted teeth, ‘to have as organic a lifestyle as possible—’

‘Oh, spare me. I spent years listening to that claptrap from my parents. I don’t need to revisit that tired old place again.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with growing as much of your own food as you can. At least when I pull up my vegetables, I know that they haven’t been doing freestyle in a swimming pool of fertilisers!’ She looked around her with scathing condescension. ‘I don’t know how you could do all this, Pierre.’

‘All what?’ His voice was very quiet, which made her think that it might be an idea to abandon the developing conversation.

‘All this. The clinical expensive gym, the clinical expensive apartment in the heart of the city. I mean, you grew up on a farm!’

‘Correction. I grew up in a boarding school. I had holidays on a farm and that was enough for me to realise that as permanent lifestyles went, it wasn’t one I cared to pursue. But you didn’t come here to catch up, did you, Georgie? You might be impulsive but you’re not that impulsive.’

‘It’s a little awkward…’

Pierre recognised the sheepish tilt of her head, the way her eyes shifted away from him, her body language as she drew back slightly. A little awkward. Could only mean one thing, really. She needed money for something and she had come to beg. Only somewhere along the line she had forgotten that beggars should be humble and accommodating.

A humble Georgie. Should make interesting viewing, he thought. He decided to watch her wriggle in her own discomfort and inclined his head to one side with an expression of lively but uncomprehending interest.

‘I mean…’

He leaned forward and frowned helpfully.

Georgie sighed dramatically. ‘This tea’s awful. Have you ever tried a fruit infusion? Disgusting. I don’t suppose you could get me a coffee, could you? I’d love a latte, as a matter of fact. Haven’t had one of those for ages…’#p#分页标题#e##p#分页标题#e#

Pierre could recognise delaying tactics from a mile away. He forgot about the important emails waiting to be sent and nodded. ‘Sure.’

‘I know you’re probably in a rush…’

‘Take your time, Georgie.’ He flashed her a smile and wondered how she would ask the favour she had clearly come to ask. Georgie was as proud as they came. Must be something very important that would have her come to him cap in hand. ‘I’ll go get you that latte and maybe something to eat? They do a nice line in bran muffins and fruit and nut bars. Should be right up your street.’

‘Because I have a vegetable plot doesn’t mean that I like bran muffins and fruit bars!’ She watched as he stood up, fishing in the pocket of his jogging bottoms for his wallet. He absolutely towered. It wasn’t simply his height, but all that impacted muscle on show. His arms were lean, brown and hard and his torso had athleticism and grace. She couldn’t actually remember noticing all this about him, but then again she had rarely spent time with him on a one-to-one basis and certainly never here, in London, on his turf. The saying ‘Lord of all he surveys’ sprang into her head.